In the druse of a rock, in a bed by a stream,
I remember how we'd plan, and I relish how we'd scheme,
search for sloughs in the rock, slither down upon a beam,
and without a worry split through the cracks to a dream,
grab an axe as we'd grind, stave a cradle as we'd scheme,
go for gold in the rock, hew a groove in the beam,
sinking down, as we lay, melding mettle to our dream
of a roof overhead, made of slate, by a stream.
Then we culled through the rock as we mulled on the beam,
grating hard - as we cooed in our cote of a dream
under roof, without rules, in a swale by a stream -
at the stones that would channel us like weirs through our scheme
thinking too, as we grew in the drama of our dream
- while it slid like a rill to a freshet to a stream -
that for babies out of lock, we'd need wedding in our scheme
and to glom to the rock like a burl to a beam.
In the druse of a rock, in a glade by a stream,
I regret how your act blew to smithereens our scheme,
and how I, like a crag, cracked the sinew of the beam,
as from there, we then crashed through the cracks of our dream.
Previously published at AlongStoryShort.net, Oct., '06
The Linnet's Wings, Spring 2007